Whipped
by Gueneviere
Summary: Malfoys aren't addicts—it's just that Draco's evil barista has been slipping him a Compulsion Potion with his daily caffeine kick. While in the queue, he runs into someone from his past. Featuring Pansy's half-sister, Celestina Warbeck's son, and one deliciously grown-up Hermione Granger. Fluff ensues. Dramione. Sequel to "Whore," sort of.
1. Compulsion

_A/N -_ _Because this_ _coffee shop trope is just too delicious. This little bit of nonsense is directly inspired by_ Meanwhile _, a delightful tumblr drabble by provocative-envy. Also, go read_ Aca-demic Arrangements _by dulce de leche go and_ Housemates _by Colubrina, if you like this trope. Both are Tomione and nonmagical!AUs. They are so odd and absolutely magnificent._

 _Please review if you reach the end of this fic—I've been out of the fanfiction writing game for a while and admittedly need some encouragement and feedback!_ _I am also in need of a good, patient beta. If you are interested in the position, please check out my profile, my other fics, and let's talk._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing. J.K. Rowling is queen._

* * *

 **WHIPPED**

 _By Gueneviere_

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 **com·pul·sion - a strong, usually irresistible impulse to perform an act, especially one that is irrational or contrary to one's will**

 **x**

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Celestina Warbeck's sleep-inducing tones importuned his eardrums with yet another breathy song about young love as Draco impatiently queued at The Dauphin for his morning drink. For all that the establishment's owner was the squib son of the so-called Singer Sorceress herself, Draco felt that the non-stop advertisement of the witch's latest albums had to be some sort of sublimated Oedipus complex.

Never mind that a 78-year-old, thrice-married woman singing about "the youthful stirrings" of her "nether magicks" was downright disturbing.

A twitchy-looking fellow who did not the triple-shot ristretto he was ordering paid up and Draco inched closer to the front of the line at last.

It was unseemly for a Malfoy to be wasting his valuable time in such an establishment, but there was nothing to be done. Warbeck had somehow gotten away with lacing his products with a powerful Compulsion Potion, which had reduced Malfoy heir to purchasing a daily fix like a common Knockturn Alley junkie.

Fortunately, his mother had to despair at her only son's frequenting a plebeian coffee shop from the confines of house arrest.

The bell chimed behind him, and a brunette swept past him at a decisive pace, making her way to the cashier while stuffing a sleek, rectangular contraption into her briefcase. To his unmitigated horror, the barista seemed to be expecting this and placed a steaming drink in the witch's carefully manicured hand almost instantly.

Draco was already three-fourths of the way to the front of the line to give this uppity woman a piece of his mind when something about her posture made the back of his skull itch with recognition. _Salazar, not her. Please not her._

"Thanks a bunch, Lottie," Hermione Granger was saying when she turned around, her smile freezing on her face like a poorly nailed painting the second she caught sight of him. "Malfoy."

The wizard blinked, his brain momentarily out of order.

"I—What are you doing here?" He finally spit out with an incoherence no one ever wants to display in front of a childhood rival who had grown up to rob a bank, defeat a Dark Lord, and save one from a cursed fire.

She also looked unfairly fit in her dove gray Muggle dress and Gryffindor red lipstick. Unwelcome memories of the war heroine in her school uniform, writhing under him in their Heads' common room flashed through his head.

Granger tilted her curly head. She was raising an eyebrow at the blond with the same disparaging scrutiny with which she'd retaliated by claiming _he_ was _her_ whore after he tried to humiliate her in front of their Potions class in their eighth year.

"I work next door, Malfoy." Her tone was not without humor as she shared a look with the girl behind the counter.

"Miss Granger is the Assistant Head of Magical Law Enforcement," the younger girl chirped in, the snake tattoo on her collarbone slithering up her neck as she turned to Granger. "Draco visits us every day too, but never before noon."

The man in question could feel his cheeks warming up at that and glared at Lotus Bletchley's amused smirk. The girl's family ties to his former girlfriend had never been more obvious. For all that Pansy disapproved of her half-sister's profession, sense of style, and cohabitation with the older Warbeck squib, the two girls shared their delight in torturing Draco.

"Ah," Granger seemed to hesitate. "Well, it's nice to see you supporting our local entrepreneurs, Malfoy, but I have a meeting with Kingsley. Harry is reporting to us about the new Auror recruits." She stole a glance at her delicate wristwatch. "In twenty minutes. _Shit_."

Draco shifted his weight uncomfortably. He disliked that she was on first name basis with the Minister of Magic. He realized that shaking the man's hand at networking events would not engender the same familiarity as fighting off Death Eaters on the back of a Thestral, but Draco couldn't help but resent his former classmate.

"I'm surprised you didn't follow Potty and the Weasel and became an Auror yourself," said Draco in a derisive tone that had the witch rolling her eyes.

"Please, Malfoy. I did not spend all that time studying to become a _policewoman_. You Slytherins are not the only ones with ambitions, you know."

She waved his dead Aunt Bellatrix's wand at her drink, which now hovered obediently at her side. He shivered at the Muggleborn's casual use of the instrument that had been used to torture her in his very sitting room. "Well?" Granger's dark eyes were flashing with impatience. "What do you want?"

He noticed Lottie was still eying them with interest as she charmed a foam badger on a teenaged girl's Hazelpuff Crème Latte "with extra chocolate frog crumbles." Some of the other patron's were also following the exchange with unveiled curiosity. Draco could feel his temper rising fast.

"You can't just walk in here and skip the line, Granger!" He protested at last. "We _all_ want our Compulsion Potion drinks served quickly, just like you."

The brunette sneaked another look at Lotus as though Draco were mentally unbalanced. Pansy's wayward sister sighed as though she had to apologize for the blond. "He means the sugar." She frowned "I think?"

He was not fooled. Lotus had been in his House and he _knew_ a Compulsion Potion's effects when he drank one.

"Malfoy, it's too early for me to appreciate the irony of that statement coming from the boy whose father bought his spot on the Quidditch team." Granger sighed and tightened her hold on her briefcase. She opened her mouth to argue some more, but looked at her watch again and thought better of it. "See you tomorrow, Lottie," she called out and made her way out of The Dauphin without sparing him a second look, her steaming drink trailing behind her and evading a bleary-eyed man by the door.

Proud and self-possessed, Draco let her go.

Also, because her heels matched her lipstick and made her calves look delicious, which was admittedly very distracting.

He was comforted by the fact that she was still an insufferable know-it-all with an abrasive personality and subpar hair. He resolved to show up early tomorrow and beat her to the front of the line.

Lottie Bletchley's gleeful voice cut his reverie short.

"Gryffinberry Frappuccino with _whipped_ cream for Draco Malfoy!"

x

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 _A/N -_ Whipped _can also be read as a pseudo-sequel to_ Whore _, if you squint. If you go read_ Whore _now, please keep in mind that I was in middle school when I wrote it, so be nice. Also,_ _I can't explain Lotus. I can't. I just love the idea of Pansy having a little sister with a rebellious streak. Celestina Warbeck really does have a son from her second marriage though, and he might or might not be a squib according to Pottermore._

 _I've just joined tumblr. Follow me to read more silliness and ask me questions at_ _gueneviere-fics_

 _ **PLEASE REVIEW IF YOU READ THIS!** Just 3 seconds of your time will make my day and encourage me to keep at it with my other fics ;)_


	2. Whiplash

_A/N -_ _For provocative envy, whose comments prompted me to make Hermione a little more flirty here below than I originally intended, and for cocoartist, who owns the "infernobrandy" concept._

 _Silly and un-betaed. Written under severe caffeine withdrawal, ironically enough. Read with caution._ _Please review if you reach the end of this fic!_

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing. J.K. Rowling is queen._

* * *

 **WHIPPED**

 _By Gueneviere_

* * *

 **whip·lash - an abrupt snapping motion or change of direction resembling the lash of a whip; to beat, hit, throw, etc., with or as if with a whiplash.**

x

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Draco was in a good mood by the time he closed the Prophet the following Friday. Creveey's satirical cartoon strip had been uncommonly amusing—something or other about postwar frugality and Tiberius McLaggen's run-in with a House-Elf whose loyalty to the politician's ex-wife was nothing if not terrifying. Further, the Weaselette had volunteered a full-colored spread about the "warm yet sophisticated Mediterranean décor" of the new home she shared with Potter, which Draco knew was bound to irritate the hell out of Boy Wonder.

The Slytherin had also heard the most amusing rumor from the Ministry pencil-pushers tarrying to work. Apparently one of the Weasel's older brothers—the anal retentive one with glasses—had nearly gotten himself disinherited by proposing to his girlfriend of less than three months. Everyone was stupefied. Everyone but Draco Malfoy, that was, who knew—knew _for a fact_ , as coincidence would have it—that the lady in question, Tracey Davies' beautiful cousin Audrey, had made a Vestal oath to wait until marriage and wore an honest-to-Merlin _chastity belt_ under her robes.

As Draco gratefully received his Slythermint Chococino from a smirking Lottie—he would not risk ordering his favorite drink anytime soon, that much was obvious—he reveled in the best part of this particular Friday morning. It had taken a full week, but Draco had finally beaten Granger to the counter. He knew this to be true because he could see her awful Raven-Eye Ristretto waiting for her under a heating charm on the café's rosewood counter.

He fought a sudden, ungentlemanly urge to spill it or at the very least lift the heating charm. Draco would pay good money to see Hermione Granger stand in the queue with the rest of the patrons of the non-war hero-or-chocolate-frog-card variety.

As it turns out, Granger skipped the line on a consistent basis, and Lotus—who was, if you asked him, a little too much in awe of the witch who had helped vanquish the Dark Lord besieging her school in her second year at Hogwarts—was always happy to accommodate the former Head Girl.

Of course, the barista denied her blatant favoritism.

"She's punctual, Draco," she had said on Tuesday. "She keeps a tab and tips extra to have her order ready, Draco," she had added on Wednesday. "You come in every day at a different time and refuse to keep a tab, Draco," she had excused yesterday.

Right. Like keeping a tab at one's neighborhood drug dealer had ever turned out well for anyone.

He was still mustering his battle-ready _sangfroid_ to get about defacing the name on Granger's drink—he knew a wicked anagram spell and 'Nag Hero Migrener' had a nice ring to it—when the woman in question sneaked up behind him.

"Hello, Malfoy."

The blond turned to face his nemesis and could not help but grimace at the vexing witch's work attire, which she carried unfairly well. She wore a muted gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless, turtleneck shirt in shamrock green silk with a delicate pearl brocade about the neck that was almost certainly engineered to trick women like his mother into complimenting a Muggle-made item.

He wouldn't put it past the Gryffindor alumna; the woman was frighteningly clever.

"Granger," he nodded pleasantly. "Running a bit late today, aren't we?"

The witch smiled at him knowingly. "Not at all—it's exactly a quarter to eight. You, however, seem to be growing accustomed to the early-morning routine of us mere mortals." Her smirk bordered on the predatory now. "Lucius must be over the moon."

And he wanted to slap her then, because if there was one thing that had nearly ruined Draco Malfoy's perfect morning, it was his father. Lucius Malfoy, serving a life sentence from the comforts of his ancestral home and yet still well on his way to finishing breakfast by the time Draco emerged from his wing, had casually remarked that if he had known the key to getting his son and heir out of bed before noon was "Warbeck's syrupy Muggle concoctions" he might have not opposed the assimilation of the non-magical world quite so strenuously.

Lucius had then proceeded to insinuate that maybe Draco would shock them all and get an occupation at last.

And screw him—Draco was a _writer_. Admittedly, of History of Magic textbooks (Years 3-5), and suffering a bit of a writing block currently, maybe, and also—perhaps—in need of a few key interviews for the current events section of his series, and, yes, he was probably being a little too proud about acquiring said meetings, but really, who was _Lucius Malfoy_ to judge him about being skittish to approach the Golden Trio for a tell-all about the bloody war?

His current plan—annoying Granger at her favorite coffee shop until she folded and offered him anything to get him away from her—had seemed a solid one. Unless, of course, his former school rival and occasional (one time _did_ count as occasional, thank you, Blaise) paramour broke him first.

Granger had so successfully made Draco's legendary _sangfroid_ boil with rage that he had allowed her to grab her Raven-Eye and efficiently make her way to the condiment station, picking the last napkin available and tapping on the sugar pump once with her wand to sweeten her drink.

It was her nonchalance that did it, he was sure of it. Livid and impulsive like the worst of Gryffindors, Draco made a grab for the napkin she had claimed, taking it for his own.

(Somewhere in Wiltshire, Narcissa Malfoy felt very faint all of a sudden and was forced to take her tea in her private quarters.)

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione Granger ventured in utter disbelief. "Did you just steal my napkin?"

The wizard recoiled at Hermione Granger's tone, closing his eyes and vainly willing his pale complexion not to betray his shame as he tried to find a good comeback for that.

There wasn't one. Twentysomething Draco Malfoy, pureblooded wizard and student of the best governesses magical Europe had to offer, stood there looking pitiful for a few agonizing seconds before thrusting the offending piece of eggshell white paper back to the Muggleborn witch in a sudden, jerky motion.

Granger let out a tittering laugh. "Merlin," she finally caught her breath and pointed her wand to the much battled-over paper towel. " _Gemino_."

The earth did not heed his prayers by swallowing him whole when the witch offered him an identical copy of her napkin.

"Expect three hundred hendecasyllables, Malfoy," she added when he received it at last.

Draco's grey eyes widened in shock. He had committed a faux pas, yes, but surely this was too much. "You run Magical Law! You can't threaten to hex me!"

The witch blinked. "What? Oh!" Humor crept back onto her face, teasing her cerise lips upwards. "Hendecasyllable _verses_ , Malfoy. I know pureblood art consists of god-awful jewelry and tacky skull tattoos but read a book, will you?

Too stunned to comment on her casual use of the Dark Mark, Draco tried to understand what on earth this woman was on about. "You're threatening me with _poetry_?"

"It's Catullus," She was scrutinizing him now as though he were a poorly transfigured toad in McGonagall's class. Seemingly coming to a conclusion, her painted lips formed a new, secret kind of smile. Draco was sure it couldn't mean anything good for him.

"I'll loan you a copy, in fact," she said suddenly, and before he could tease her about her bookworm tendencies, Granger had opened her dainty purse, held out an outstretched hand, and—

" _Accio_ Catullus, The Poems of."

He goggled at her. Apparently, Hermione Granger's handbag was woven with expansion and lightweight charms so powerful she could carry around her library—and Merlin knows what else—in it. Of course it was. He didn't even know why this kind of shite surprised him anymore

Draco inched away just in case the purse tries to swallow him next—that much magic in an object was bound to render it near sentient after a while—but Granger took a step toward him and pressed the little book against his chest.

She was very close now—he could smell the jasmine and bergamot notes of her perfume—and she was smirking in a way no Gryffindor should be allowed to smirk, and—Salazar, her lips were moving again— _focus, Draco!_

"It's poem number 12, I think. Or maybe it's 16? No, no, it's surely 32." Her eyes were the color of topaz and cognac, firewhiskey and infernobrandy and—Circe and Morgana, he really needed a drink right now. "Hmm—you'll just have to find it, won't you?"

She sauntered off with a smile, taking something thick and heavy with her. Draco leaned against the counter, vaguely dizzy.

He was soon startled awake by the splash of scalding brown liquid that was visited upon his rice paper-colored pants. "Bloody fucking hell!"

"Aww, mate. Was that your Slythermint? I'm so sorry!"

x

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 _A/N -_ _Hermione cites Catullus 12 on the napkin issue, and the poem itself is what prompted the second and third drabbles (am I still allowed to call them that?) in the Whipped series. It's hilarious; you have to read it. The others she mentions are actually pretty lewd. Poor Draco._

 _Coffee Notes from a Coffee Nut: This chapter features the two missing Hogwarts House drinks that did not appear before. Some people have asked me for recipes, but since I might end up accidentally poisoning you, I'm not going to try. However, it shouldn't be that hard to scan local Starbucks to find the closest thing to these drinks on the menu. I would say Peppermint Mocha = Slythermint Chococino, Red-Eye or Black-Eye = Raven-Eye Ristretto, Hazelnut Malt Latte = Hazelpuff Crème Latte, and Strawberry Frappuccino = Gryffinberry Frappuccino._

 _Fun fact: You can actually order a Butterbeer Frappuccino at Starbucks! Find out the specs by googling "Butterbeer Frappuccino" and "Starbucks Secret Menu."_

 _ **PLEASE REVIEW!** Reviews are an excellent incentive for my muse and they make me very happy, too :)_


	3. Vertigo

_A/N - Much beta love_ _to lisbethsalandrr for her patience and insights! Any remaining mistakes are my own._

 _Pre-Chapter Homework: If the tone of the poems that Hermione referenced in the previous chapter are not fresh in your mind, be sure to check them out again. The poem she cited when Draco stole her napkin is Catullus 12, but she is evil and pretended not to remember the number and threw some other options at Draco (16 and 32) to scandalize him. If you check out 32, for example, you'll realize why Draco is blushing. If you don't feel like looking this up (although it's hilarious and fascinating stuff, and you really should), just keep in mind that Catullus is practically the original smut writer._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing. J.K. Rowling is queen._

* * *

WHIPPED

 _By Gueneviere_

* * *

ver·ti·go - a dizzying sensation of tilting within stable surroundings or of being in tilting or spinning surroundings.

x

* * *

Pansy was running late. The sun was already setting over the cluster of buildings in Diagon Alley, and Blaise was meeting her here in less than fifteen minutes to head to their double date with Adrian Pucey. The older Slytherin was a household name these days after _Witch Weekly_ published a shockingly accurate article about his failed triad with the Carrow sisters, who had apparently decided they didn't have much use for him after all.

The entire affair was really too shocking for words, so naturally it was all anyone was talking about.

Pansy _knew_ she was running late, but the awareness only made her movements more languid, if possible. It was how she dealt with life when the latter rushed her—especially at the prospect of unpleasant confrontation.

And the likelihood of said unpleasant confrontation was high.

Pansy had been sent to _The Dauphin_ yet again to speak to her wayward half-sister at her mother's behest ("At least get her to come home and stop serving tea to government officials like a poorly dressed house-elf!"). She had come, despite knowing it was almost certainly a fool's errand.

The witch surveyed her surroundings carefully. The little coffee shop was _quaint_ , she supposed, and almost empty. She spotted Draco, of all people, sitting by himself in a secluded corner. She frowned at the blond, who had yet to notice her. He was, in fact, goggling at an ancient-looking book, blushing as though Narcissa Malfoy had caught him fondling one of the solarium's marble statues again.

This, Pansy knew, had been especially awkward since the bust in question had been commissioned by Abraxas Malfoy to—nakedly—memorialize his sister Lavinia on the occasion of her nineteenth birthday.

Honestly, it was a wonder that the Malfoy family's scion and heir hadn't turned out _more_ messed up.

Pansy took a step toward Lottie, who was putting preservation spells on a dozen pastel-coloured baked concoctions, clearly preparing to close for the day. She stopped when she saw her sister's older boyfriend emerge from the backroom and kiss the girl's neck before nicking one of the cupcakes and making her laugh.

They looked disgustingly happy, Pansy thought not for the first time. She eyed the giggling couple more carefully—the squib was not bad looking in his fitted, expensive-looking Muggle suit. Lottie, however, was sporting something that looked like half a black corset under a short dress missing rather large pieces of fabric on both sides of her torso. Half fascinated, half disapproving, Pansy's kohl-rimmed eyes took stock of the younger witch's lace-up leather boots.

Peeling her gaze from the perpetual beacon of controversy that was her baby sister's wardrobe with a sigh, Pansy decided that she could safely report the failure of her rescue mission to her lady mother.

Resolving to greet Lottie when she was less occupied with beau ("a squib _and_ not even a pureblooded one, I hear!" her mother despaired in her head), Pansy flicked her wand in the direction of Draco's little nook, smoothed her floral jacquard-paneled silk robes, and sat across from the wizard just as her cleaning charm finished sanitizing the sticky table between them.

Draco looked up at his ex-girlfriend and tightened his hold on the dusty little book in his best impression of Primrose Bletchley, formerly Parkinson, upon hearing that her youngest daughter was living in sin with a member of the non-magical working class.

"Pansy!" His voice was full of undiluted horror.

"Draco," she cooed with malicious anticipation. "What has you clutching your Malfoy pearls on such a lovely evening?"

"Pansy," he repeated dumbly. He was starting to remind her of the near-catatonic Montague who had been found in a toilet after spending a month trapped in that wretched Vanishing Cabinet in their fifth year.

"Spit it out," she snapped, almost concerned now.

A wide-eyed, red-cheeked Draco leaned in conspiratorially. "I think Hermione Granger just gave me a smutty book."

Her jaw fell a smidge, but she was saved from the rather pedestrian urge to openly gape at the clearly brain-addled blond when the bell chimed in behind her, and Blaise walked up to the pair.

"Pans, are you ready to—" The dark-skinned wizard cut himself short. "What's wrong with him?"

"Unclear," Pansy admitted. "Apparently he thinks Hermione Granger is trying to deflower him or some such."

Lottie, sans squib, approached her older housemates. "She gave Draco a poetry book this morning after Draco took her napkin. Honestly, they were bickering worse than mum and your dad that time he returned Aunt Wisteria's china in pieces."

Draco looked furious. "You don't understand," he sputtered, pushing his little book under Lottie's nose. "Granger's _seducing_ me. Look at this!"

Blaise raised his eyebrows at his friend. "Mate, I hate to break it to you, but I think she did that already in Eighth Year."

"Yeah," Pansy smiled dreamily. "I lost a bloody fortune on the bet, but it was all worth it for the fallout in Potions."

Blaise agreed. "Like purchasing a ticket for the theatre, really."

The witch smirked, gunmetal blue eyes twinkling. "A _comedy_."

Lottie wasn't listening, her eyes glued to the page Draco had pointed at. "Mind if I take this home for the night—I just, um—I love poetry, you know? Rabid fan of, uh—" She flipped the book to read the cover. "This Catullus fellow."

"Really?" Pansy's stretched out the word, incredulity and amusement dripping from her tone in equal parts. "Funny, you've never mentioned it before"

Her sister glared and made a shooing motion. "I am mentioning it _now_. Get out of my coffee shop." With that, Lottie took off with the little tome, grabbing her confused boyfriend by the sleeve and dragging him into the back room.

"Time to go," Pansy stood up suddenly, looking away from the departing couple and Granger's smutty book with a vaguely nauseated grimace.

Her mother would not care for the details, but she was quite sure Lotus Bletchley was a lost cause.

x

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 _A/N - Your reviews make my day and I always love hearing from people, even if it's just one word. If you read, please review!_


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